


i have loved the stars too fondly

by Shinybug



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bathing/Washing, First Kiss, First Time, Happy Ending, Jealousy, M/M, Stargazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:15:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23189831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shinybug/pseuds/Shinybug
Summary: Jaskier thinks of what the old spicewoman said about telling Geralt his heart, and he feels a thrill down his spine. It’s similar to what he feels when facing down monsters just a few steps behind Geralt. There’s always a surprising absence of fear. It could be disastrous, but it could also be a triumph worthy of a ballad.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 83
Kudos: 1045





	i have loved the stars too fondly

_I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.  
~Sarah Williams_

******

“You’ve never been afraid of me,” Geralt says quietly, his voice barely carrying over the snap of the fire.

“Well,” Jaskier replies, taken aback, “no. Why would I be afraid of you?”

He feels Geralt’s gaze weighing heavily on him, and he pauses in the act of examining his elven lute to look across the fire. Geralt is staring at him like he’s never seen him before.

“Everyone else is.”

“I’m not everyone else,” Jaskier says distractedly, running his fingertips along the smooth surface under his hands, gauging the dryness of the wood and finding it acceptable.

Minutes pass, and Jaskier carefully tunes the strings with little bright plucked notes. Eventually Geralt mutters, “No, I suppose you’re not.”

“Hmm?” Jaskier asks, having lost the thread of the conversation.

“Nothing. Never mind.”

Jaskier looks up at him hopefully. “Would you like to hear my latest ballad? It’s not complete, but I’d like to practice. It’s called ‘The Winter Sun.’”

Geralt doesn’t say anything, which is as good as consent as far as Geralt is concerned, so Jaskier breaks into a lilting song about a fair maiden with silver hair whose beauty could brighten the coldest winter day. The source of his muse is rather obvious, but he assumes that Geralt won’t pick up on it so he feels confident in singing it to him anyway.

Halfway through the ballad Jaskier notices that Geralt is watching his hands as they strum the lute, and almost fumbles the next verse. He had honestly expected Geralt to ignore him completely.

He also doesn’t expect any kind of response when he’s done, but Geralt says, “It’s still autumn.”

Jaskier smiles. “I’ll have it finished by the first chill of winter, and it will be perfect for entertaining the cold patrons of any inn we visit.”

“Hmm,” Geralt replies, and Jaskier feels warmth bloom in his belly. He can tell a noise of approval when he hears one.

“Thank you, Geralt.”

Geralt doesn’t pretend not to understand what he’s being thanked for. He simply shakes out his bedroll and settles himself down. “Get some sleep,” he says gruffly.

Jaskier lays down on his bedroll on his back, facing the night sky. He would never have expected it, but he’s grown to enjoy sleeping outdoors with the stars overhead. It’s a bit overcast tonight but he can still see the stars in peekaboo patches as the clouds shift. He’s never learned the names of the stars, but there is one in particular which he always searches for that pulses just a fraction brighter than the others, a pinprick golden gem in the sea of black.

The hazy clouds blow gently to the left and he finds it, winking at him, a constant within the changing landscape. He feels himself at peace and closes his eyes, knowing that his yellow star is there and that Geralt is on the other side of the fire.

******

Morning finds them on the road early after a cold breakfast of bread and cheese, on to the next town to chase another monster. Rather than dwelling on the sameness of their days on the road, Jaskier still feels a thrill at the idea of adventure, even after the few years they’ve been traveling together. He can’t imagine enjoying it on his own, but with someone like Geralt beside him he is guaranteed a good story to tell at the end of each day. Even the quiet days are worth it, because the ability to see the continent in all its glory and despair is enough to feed his poet’s heart.

And then there’s the fact of traveling with Geralt himself, who Jaskier has loved from afar since the moment the Witcher gave all his money to a ragged band of elves in need instead of doing, well, anything else to them.

Unfeeling witcher, indeed.

Truly, Jaskier feels no small amount of desperation and despair at times, befitting of any true poet, when admiring that complex anti-hero in all his glory, fresh from a fight or simply reclining by a fire. Anytime, really. He’s never met the likes of Geralt of Rivia, and he knows he never will again no matter how long he lives. Jaskier can imagine following Geralt to the end of his days, either at his side or trailing behind as he sometimes does, chasing Geralt’s ghost from town to town in a cat and mouse game that only Jaskier is playing.

“Where are we headed next?” Jaskier asks, plucking an apple from the tree they’re resting under, taking a short break from the midday autumn sun. The tart sweetness of the apple makes his mouth water and he leans back against the bark with a small moan. Geralt’s eyes flick to him.

“Nowhere in particular,” he replies as he retrieves a water skin from Roach’s saddlebags, “but there’s a large town up ahead that might supply me with a contract, and they have a good market. I thought we might go there. We need more food for the road, and you need new soles on your boots.”

Jaskier raises his eyebrows, touched that Geralt had realized that, without Jaskier even saying anything to him. “I didn’t realize you were a mind reader as well as a monster hunter. I should guard my thoughts more carefully.” He winks saucily and Geralt ignores him.

“Your gait changes as your soles wear down. I can tell they’re bothering you now.”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Jaskier admits, examining his boots now as he sits down with his ankles crossed. It’s a good day, he muses, listening to bird song and the bubbling of a nearby stream. “If they also have an inn with a bathtub, consider me enthusiastically on board with this plan. I’d rather not bathe in yonder stream, but we both do need a good scrubbing. Soon the monsters will simply run away before you can engage them in a fight.”

Geralt huffs softly. “If we have the coin for it, I suppose we could.”

“I’ve been saving my earnings,” Jaskier admits with a grin, “for just such an occasion.”

Geralt doesn’t reply, but Jaskier can tell that he’s pleased. He might not admit such things aloud, but it’s clear to Jaskier that he does enjoy a foray into civilization now and again. The larger the town, the better the ale, and the likelihood of a bed softer than the rocky ground.

“Alright then, let’s get on with it,” Jaskier declares, getting to his feet and handing his apple core to Roach, who only snaps her teeth at him once before accepting the gift. Slowly but surely he will win that horse’s heart, Jaskier tells himself. Geralt is glaring at him for his boldness, but Jaskier just whistles a jaunty tune--one of his own, obviously--and sets off down the road again.

******

When they reach the town that afternoon the first thing they see is the market, with its brightly colored canvas stalls and waving banners and the streets busy with people. Jaskier watches Geralt’s posture stiffen with each step as they move through the market area and into the town proper, and Jaskier is relieved to see that it’s busy enough that most people don’t pay much mind to a black clad man and his brightly adorned companion leading an irritable horse. One benefit of large towns is the anonymity that they offer.

They locate a stable and leave Roach with a bucket of oats and a clean stall in which to rest her weary hooves, and Geralt gives the stableboy a heavy glare as they leave. Jaskier rolls his eyes and smiles at the boy, who looks like he might piss himself, but has to allow that Roach will likely have excellent care in their absence. With that done they head off to find a respectable inn.

Jaskier inquires of a few passing people who look like locals and they’re directed to The Lark’s Nest, which has, predictably, a lark in a nest painted on the swinging sign. The inkeep gives Geralt a narrow look but takes Jaskier’s coin anyway, and they find themselves in temporary possession of a small but clean room with a bed and a bathtub. Jaskier grins hugely and Geralt just shoulders past him to deposit his gear and bags by the bed.

“Is this not perfect? I’ll grant you, I’ve stayed in nicer places in my time. Much nicer. But this room is just lovely, look at these darling window hangings. Oh, and see, the window opens out over the market! Just wonderful.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, unbuckling his armor and letting out just the barest sigh as the weight comes off.

Jaskier looks at him shrewdly. “Admit it, you’re relieved to have somewhere comfortable to stay tonight.”

“It’s all the same to me.” Geralt trades out his sweat-stained shirt for another dubiously cleaner one, the muscles in his shoulders bunching as he moves, and Jaskier looks away while trying to seem like he was never looking in the first place.

“Well, then I will enjoy myself enough for the both of us.”

“You do that.” He sounds amused, at least, and Jaskier is pleased to see him begin to relax, no matter how dismissive Geralt is on the subject of luxury.

Jaskier pats some dust from his doublet and checks his hair in the mirror. Finding himself acceptable, he turns to Geralt. “Shall we head to the market? There is so much to see and not enough daylight left to see it all.”

“Lead on, bard,” Geralt replies, making a sweeping motion toward the door.

The market smells of sausage and sweet roasted nuts, and the air is filled with the sound of hawkers advertising their wares. Children dart around them laughing, and Jaskier holds his hand subtly over the purse on his belt, in case the urchins are looking to separate him from his money.

He looks over at Geralt and notes the pinched look around his eyes, knowing that the sound and bright colors and scents must be overwhelming to one with heightened senses. He sticks close to Geralt’s side, hoping to offer him something familiar to focus on.

“Oh look, here’s the cobbler’s stall.” Leather strips and tools hang from the rafters of the stall, and partially completed boots and shoes line shelves at the back. Jaskier guides them over and shows his boots to the cobbler, an old man with hands gnarled by decades of use. “How much for some new soles, my good man?”

“Eh, twenty,” the old man replies with a sour face, holding out his hand. “Pick them up tomorrow.”

“Eighteen, and a pair of loaner boots, if you will. I can’t very well walk around in my stockings until tomorrow. Imagine the looks I will get.”

The cobbler looks insulted. “I would never have a man walking without shoes.” He digs around in a bin behind him and produces a beaten pair of boots that have seen better years. He slaps them into Jaskier’s hand and grunts dismissively. “Tomorrow after lunchtime.”

Jaskier trades out his boots for the others and guides Geralt away and back into the noisy crowd. “What a delightful old man, I liked him very much. Well, I suppose we will have to stay through tomorrow noon, and you won’t hear me complain about it. Where to next? Food?”

Geralt nods and leads the way to where the scents are the strongest. Together they choose dried beef and a wheel of hard cheese for the road, and Jaskier picks out a loaf of braided bread for the morning. For a treat he buys a bag of candied nuts and shares them with Geralt as they walk.

It occurs to Jaskier as they make their way through the market that he hasn’t been this content in a long while, simply running errands with Geralt. The autumn sun is on his face, the breeze is kicking up swirls of bright red leaves along the street around the legs of the market patrons. The scents of food and incense hang in the shifting air, the canvas stalls ripple as they pass, the people chatter to one another.

Jaskier loves the adventure of life with Geralt, but he is reminded that he is a social creature at heart and used to life’s luxurious pleasures. They make an odd pair, he and Geralt, the two of them diametrically opposed to one another but still somehow connecting, albeit in an undefined way. Jaskier, on a good day, dares to think of them as friends.

He feels a great deal more than that, but he’s kept that to himself for so long that it’s usually a background hum in his heart anymore, just the sound of the wind in the tallest trees when surrounded by a forest.

A passing fancy makes Jaskier insist that Geralt examine a fine dove-gray linen shirt in a tailor’s stall. Geralt grudgingly allows Jaskier to hold it up to see if it would fit a man of Geralt’s stature. He even tries it on and gives a few practice swings with his arms to make sure he can fight in it, and then agrees to buy it when it does, indeed, fit. Jaskier leaves beaming, having just badgered Geralt into something resembling fashion, at least for a Witcher. Geralt looks less enthused, but surprisingly indulgent.

Something catches Jaskier’s eye as they pass a stall shimmering with light, and he veers sharply to the left to see what it was. He senses Geralt following behind him, a hulking presence at his back as he leans over a tray of glittering jewels. 

“Ahh, Geralt look,” he breathes, letting his eyes roam over the array of metal and stone. Pendants, brooches, rings, all are crafted exquisitely, and Jaskier looks up to see the jeweler, a tall slender man with fine features, eyeing him shrewdly. The jeweler’s ears are just the slightest bit pointed.

Geralt leans slightly over Jaskier’s shoulder and he’s almost distracted by their proximity, but there is a particular ring that is captivating him and calling all his attention. Set within regally patterned silver is the most brilliant yellow stone he’s ever seen. Its facets scintillate and spark off of one another when Jaskier slides it on his littlest finger, an unearthly display that reminds him of his favorite star.

He looks up at Geralt to show him and inhales sharply when he realizes the stone is the exact color of Geralt’s eyes.

“Well,” Jaskier breathes, forcing himself to look back at the stone. “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”

“No,” Geralt replies after a moment, his voice hushed, close enough to Jaskier’s ear that he shivers.

“How much?” Jaskier asks the jeweler, already feeling the inevitable trepidation but needing to know anyway.

The jeweler takes Jaskier’s hand in his and makes a show of touching both his fingers and the ring, a delicate caress that makes Jaskier swallow hard, and inexplicably he senses Geralt stiffening beside him.

“Two hundred,” he answers in a low, silky voice. “It is the finest citrine money can buy.”

Jaskier pales and pulls his hand back. “I thank you for the privilege of looking at it, but I must decline.”

“One seventy-five,” the jeweler counters. “You are a bard, yes? I can tell by your hands. Imagine how this would flash and entice as you play your lute so skilfully. How it would attract the patrons.”

Jaskier shakes his head and removes the ring reluctantly. “Not even in my dreams could I afford it, my good man.”

He hands it back and the jeweler winks at him, catching his hand again. “I also observe that your Witcher friend here has citrine eyes himself. Perhaps that explains your fascination.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen and his heart gives a heavy thud of embarrassment. “Oh, I hadn’t even noticed.”

“The bard has no need of your pretty yellow baubles when he already has me,” Geralt says in a growl, reaching out to remove the jeweler’s hand from Jaskier’s, who nearly swallows his own tongue.

“I--don’t--” Jaskier tries, but no other words spring to mind, he’s so shocked and confused.

“Well,” the jeweler says archly, “should you change your mind, I would take one-fifty from two star-crossed lovers in exchange for this priceless piece. Think about it.”

Geralt steers Jaskier sharply away from the stall with a hand on his elbow, and once they’re out of hearing range Jaskier shakes off Geralt’s hand abruptly. “Geralt, what the fuck was that?” he hisses, pride and heart both stinging.

“He was too slippery, I don’t trust him.”

“Yes, he’s in the business of seducing people to buy his wares, he’s supposed to be slippery. Don’t you know how this works?” His heart is pounding like a drum, so hard he feels dizzy.

Geralt looks uncomfortable, frowning at him. “If you liked him so much, then go back there, by all means.”

Jaskier resists the urge to stomp his foot. “You know I could never afford such a thing. I’m just irritated at your behavior.”

“I’ll leave you to your own devices, then,” Geralt responds stiffly, and leaves Jaskier standing there with his mouth open in the middle of the street.

Jaskier throws his hands up and spins on his heel, heading the other direction. He feels the jeweler’s eyes following him as he passes the stall again but he doesn’t look over, no matter how much that ring and its maker are still preoccupying him.

He walks through the market without really paying attention to where he’s going, eating a sausage for supper and wondering where Geralt has gone. He pictures him alone in their room, brooding, and feels a petty satisfaction at the thought. He still doesn’t understand why Geralt would say such a thing about Jaskier ‘having’ him, as though Geralt is anyone’s to have, and if anyone does have him it certainly isn’t Jaskier.

It’s the mockery of a relationship that doesn’t exist between them that bothers Jaskier the most. Perhaps Geralt said it without realizing it would hurt Jaskier, but that doesn’t make the hurt any less.

At dusk the lamplighters come out to illuminate the market, and Jaskier stops at an incense stall to take some calming breaths of the rich perfume floating in the air. An old woman with a wizened face and cramped, roughened hands hobbles forward to peer up at him.

“You’ve lost your love, my boy.”

Jaskier shrugs, not even surprised anymore at being so transparent to these strangers. “I never had him, truly.”

She shrugs. “Perhaps you are mistaken. Or perhaps I am. After all, I’m just an old spicewoman.” Her gaze, however, is too canny for her to be just a seller of incense.

Jaskier sighs. “Today everyone wants to tell me my business. I suppose you have some sage advice for me?”

She takes his hand and peers at the lines on his palm, tracing them carefully. “Hmm. Your life will be long, and your companion’s even longer. Your paths will converge and diverge for the length of your life. You are each your own, and also twined together. I see a balance. The strength of opposing forces. I see a bright star.”

Jaskier shivers in the cool night air. “Grandmother, you’ve told me nothing I didn’t already know.”

The old woman cackles at him kindly, showing her few teeth. “I never promised you advice, that was you supposing I would give you some.”

He pats her gently on the hand and then draws away. He fishes out a coin from his purse and hands it to her. “Thank you for your knowing eyes anyway.”

“Wait, dear boy.” She sifts through a bowl of arcane objects on a stool beside her until she finds a small vial of oil and hands it to him. “Chamomile, to soothe. And don’t assume you know his heart until you tell him yours. There’s your advice.” With a wink she turns away, dismissing him as she hums a little tune that Jaskier recognizes as one of his own.

After a moment he blinks and turns away, at a loss for words. He looks up at the clear night sky and tries to find his star, but it’s too early in the evening to see it. He glances around, just in case Geralt is by chance standing there behind him. It wouldn’t be the strangest thing to happen today, but the street is nearly empty now and there is no Geralt to be seen.

Jaskier places the vial in his purse and tries to get his bearings. Eventually he spots the inn they’re staying at and heads there, feeling unsettled. He doesn’t know what he will say to Geralt when he gets there.

He remembers that their window faces the market street and he looks up as he nears it, expecting to see a light in the window, but the room is dark. It’s possible, then, that he won’t say anything to Geralt at all.

The room is cold and dark when he arrives, and he lights a fire in the hearth. Slowly the warmth spreads through the room but Jaskier still feels cold. He sees the food they had bought on the table beside the bed, so he knows that Geralt was here at some point. The bathtub is wet, so he must have bathed earlier.

Jaskier decides to ask the innkeep for some hot water for his own bath, and a serving girl brings bucket after bucket until the tub is filled. He gives her an extra coin for her trouble and she smiles winsomely at him, clearly offering something more than hot water. He shakes his head with a small smile and she shrugs regretfully.

After she leaves Jaskier thinks about how long it’s been since he indulged in a good bit of fun with a willing body, and he is surprised to realize it’s been quite a while. He thinks about the jeweler today, the slender hands firm on his own, the flash of the gem between them. There had been an invitation there too, but he hadn’t been tempted.

He soaks in the tub until the water begins to lose its warmth, resting his head back against the rim and feeling like he might never get out again. After such an odd day he feels wrong-footed, when the morning had started out so promising.

The longer he lies there alone in the room, the more he thinks about Geralt. He wonders where he’s gone off to so late in the evening, then realizes he’s probably at some pub somewhere, drinking alone. Jaskier thinks of what the old spicewoman said about telling Geralt his heart, and he feels a thrill down his spine. It’s similar to what he feels when facing down monsters just a few steps behind Geralt. There’s always a surprising absence of fear. It could be disastrous, but it could also be a triumph worthy of a ballad.

That thrill chases through his whole body, and he imagines Geralt’s yellow eyes on him. With one hand he touches his half-hard cock, gently teasing with his fingertips until he reaches full hardness, gasping softly into the quiet air. He doesn’t have a scenario in mind, just the idea of Geralt near him, watching him. That’s always been enough for his fantasies.

Of course it’s then that Geralt comes through the door, heavy footfalls stopping when he sees Jaskier in the tub. They stare at each other for a long moment. Slowly Jaskier moves his hand away from his cock and twists his body, resting both arms on the rim and propping his chin on his hands.

“I…” Geralt begins, then clears his throat. “I’m sorry. About today.”

Jaskier raises his eyebrows. The water has made him languid, sensual. Fearless. “Why did you say it?”

Geralt purses his lips and sits on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees, facing Jaskier. “I just wanted him to leave you alone.”

“Why did you think I wanted that?”

“I could smell it on you. When you really want someone you smell differently. Like spice.” He looks uncomfortable but honest.

Jaskier bites his lip. “Is that something you smell often on me?”

Geralt nods. His golden eyes haven’t looked away from Jaskier since he entered the room.

“If I stand up right now, Geralt, are you going to look away?” Jaskier’s heart is beating hard again.

He doesn’t do anything at first, and Jaskier waits, but then Geralt shakes his head. Jaskier takes a deep breath and braces his hands on the rim. He stands slowly and water runs off of him in rivers. He lets Geralt look.

Geralt’s eyes roam over his body like the sun, bright and burning. Jaskier shivers and Geralt stands up, approaching cautiously. He holds his hand out and Jaskier takes it, stepping out of the tub and dripping on the floor as they stand watching each other. Geralt takes the bath sheet from the stool by the tub and wraps it around him, not to cover but to caress, and Jaskier’s eyes drift shut for a moment as Geralt gently dries him off. He feels Geralt’s knuckles catching on his skin beside the softness of the sheet, and he gasps.

When Geralt drops the sheet to the floor Jaskier steps forward until Geralt’s shirt is touching his chest. He’s close enough to kiss but he waits, tipping his head back and meeting Geralt’s unflinching gaze.

“You’re truly not afraid of me?”

Jaskier shakes his head. “I’ve never once been afraid of you. I know who you are.”

Geralt kisses him then, sharp and hot, lush lips and slick tongue and hands gripping his neck. Geralt kisses him like he can’t help himself, like he needs it the way he needs to breathe. Jaskier presses himself even closer, goosebumps skittering over his skin everywhere he brushes against Geralt’s clothing. He can feel the ridge of Geralt’s cock rubbing against his own and he rocks his hips forward with intent.

With a groan Geralt breaks away from the kiss and grips Jaskier’s hips hard. “Don’t. Move.”

“Or what?” He means it genuinely but it comes out defiant, and Geralt’s eyes give off sparks.

“Or this will be over before it’s begun,” Geralt says roughly and kisses him again.

Jaskier quiets and stands very still while Geralt touches him, running his thumbs over his collarbone, his nipples, his waist, the red marks he already left on Jaskier’s hips. He walks around to stand behind Jaskier, touching his shoulders with warm, calloused fingers, pressing his lips to the nape of Jaskier’s neck, licking the soft skin at the top of his spine. Jaskier moans loudly and Geralt covers his mouth with his hand.

“Quiet, or you’ll wake the town,” he whispers against his neck, biting ever so gently at the tendon there. He catches Jaskier’s next moan in the palm of his hand and Jaskier reaches up to grab his wrist. He doesn’t pull it away from his mouth but instead presses it harder, and Geralt sinks his teeth in just a bit more.

“I know you’ve wanted me,” Geralt whispers, kissing down his shoulder while Jaskier shudders against him. “I just didn’t know how much I wanted you. It took me a long time to realize it.”

Jaskier nods behind Geralt’s palm. He pushes back against Geralt, trying to get him even closer. He feels Geralt’s trapped cock and reaches back to run his fingers along the ridge of it. Geralt exhales hard and sways against him and they rock together for a moment.

“Do you know how badly I’ve wanted to do this to you?” Geralt presses fractionally harder with his hand and Jaskier laughs silently against his palm. He feels the answering huff of laughter against his shoulder as Geralt lowers his head and lets go.

Jaskier turns around and grins at him. “All you had to do was ask,” he says, tugging on Geralt’s shirt so that he can pull it over his head. At the first touch of skin on skin they both gasp, then Geralt is backing him quickly into the bed, unlacing his breeches as they go. As soon as the breeches hit the floor Jaskier flips them so he can climb on top and straddle Geralt’s thighs. Geralt looks shocked with pleasure, his gaze wide-eyed and dazed.

“Do you have oil?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt slowly shakes his head, looking regretful. Jaskier closes his eyes and says, “Wait.”

He grabs for his purse lying on the bedside table and fishes out the glass vial.

“Chamomile, to soothe,” he says, grinning.

“Did you just buy that today?”

“Not intentionally,” Jaskier says, and that’s all the reply he feels like giving. He leans down and kisses Geralt until he’s forgotten his own name and Geralt is panting and sheened in sweat like he’s been fighting monsters.

He remembers the vial and presses it into Geralt’s hand. “Don’t ask me if I’m sure.”

“I won’t,” Geralt replies. “I can smell it on you.” He uncorks the vial and Jaskier shifts forward, and then Geralt’s fingers are seeking entrance one by one, slick and warm.

Jaskier drops his head forward, rocking into Geralt’s fingers. His hair falls and obscures his vision and he tosses it back so he can see Geralt’s face, tense and entranced. “More,” he entreats on a groan, pressing back hard. Geralt adds another finger and twists, sending fire through Jaskier’s core. “Like that. Give me more. Give me everything.”

Geralt slicks himself and Jaskier shuffles forward until he can feel Geralt blunt and thick against him. “Go slow,” Geralt murmurs. “We’re not in a hurry.”

“You may not be, but I’ve been waiting an eternity for you,” Jaskier says, closing his eyes and focusing on relaxing. Geralt’s hands run smoothly down his hips and thighs, and Jaskier can smell the chamomile in the air, calming him.

Slowly but surely his body opens up and accepts the intrusion, and the first silken slide is sublime. Jaskier lets out a shaky laugh when he’s seated all the way down, and Geralt reaches up to press his thumb against Jaskier’s smile.

“You’re like sunlight.” Geralt says it so quietly Jaskier isn’t even sure he knows he said it out loud. It’s an uncharacteristic thing for him to say, and Jaskier feels like he just got a glimpse inside Geralt’s hidden heart.

Jaskier feels drunk as he searches for a rhythm, his movements slow and uncoordinated and dreamlike until Geralt helps him shift his hips and then everything clicks together like cogs in a wheel and it’s perfect. It’s like hitting the perfect high note, and that moment just before the audience cheers, when he feels on top of the world.

Everything is slick friction and rising heat and Geralt’s golden eyes on him, always watching. It’s just like his fantasies, and Jaskier wraps a hand around his cock and slides into the rhythm while Geralt watches. The burn is so bright that he sees stars behind his eyelids when he comes, and Geralt shakes apart beneath him soon after, his muscles going hard as marble between Jaskier’s thighs. He can feel the throb deep within him and he braces himself with trembling arms on Geralt’s chest. He thinks he might collapse.

Geralt is there holding him steady, controlling his fall, and eventually they end up carefully curving around each other in the bed, sheets pulled haphazardly over them. Jaskier rests his head on Geralt’s chest and Geralt takes his hand, and together they map out each other’s rough spots from swords and strings. They fall asleep that way, fingers entwined, and Jaskier thinks it was a good day, after all.

******

Jaskier wakes when the moon shines too brightly into the room on its trajectory through the night sky. He disentangles himself from Geralt and gets up to stoke the fire, then wanders over to the window. There are lovely lace curtains and he thinks about drawing them and going back to bed, but he takes a moment to look outside. There below is the darkened market street, and above that is his yellow star, just where it ought to be.

“I’ve been thinking,” Geralt says, coming up behind Jaskier and tucking a hand around his waist, his voice roughened with sleep. “We could stay here a few more days. I could take two or three contracts, if I can find them. I could buy you that ring.”

Jaskier’s heart thumps so hard it feels broken. “Geralt...thank you. But as much as I loved it, I don’t need the ring. I have you, remember?”

Geralt nods and sighs. “You do have me. I can’t promise I’ll be any easier to travel with than I’ve always been. I’m an old man and I’m set in my ways.”

Jaskier can hear the smile in those words so he just shakes his head with a sigh. Geralt kisses his temple and Jaskier turns away from the window. He threads his fingers through silver hair and holds him still so he can see Geralt’s golden eyes.

“I’m not afraid,” Jaskier says, kissing Geralt gently. “I hitched my wagon to your star long ago, and that’s not going to change.”

“I’m not a star,” Geralt says, running his thumb over Jaskier’s cheek.

Jaskier smiles softly. “Aren’t you?”

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are lovely, and make my heart soar.


End file.
